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    Never Died A Winter Yet
    Never Died A Winter Yet
    Never Died A Winter Yet
    Ebook72 pages1 hour

    Never Died A Winter Yet

    By Alan Boyd

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    About this ebook

    A collection of short stories where the characters are Glaswegian and the dialogue is in the local vernacular. Real stories about real working class people.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAlan Boyd
    Release dateNov 6, 2014
    ISBN9780957397330
    Never Died A Winter Yet

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      Book preview

      Never Died A Winter Yet - Alan Boyd

      Where There’s A Will, There’s No Way Back

      The train was approaching Glasgow Central. Memories that were boxed and buried years back were making their journey back to life for William. He had the song Caledonia playing on his iPod. The words always tugged at his emotions. A flashbulb memory flickered and his mood darkened as he waited on the next line of lyrics - I have moved and I've kept on moving, proved the points that I needed proving. What had he proved by moving? He should have stayed and made him face the music? His old man was the reason he left for the Big Smoke. William’s thoughts subsided as he had promised himself that he wouldn’t dwell on the past. A past that was scarred, leaving a bitterness which, to be fair, had diluted over the years. On his part anyway.

      As he headed towards the turnstiles, he scanned the faces, some waiting to board a train, some to meet and greet. He paused and took one last glance. Nobody. Seems his brother must have taken the huff at William’s notable absence at their father’s funeral last week. His sister had already shown her hand. A hand with two fingers and a thumb absent. It was no peace sign. Oh well. A couple of hours to go to the awkward face-to-face.

      William couldn’t wait to hear the accents, the patter, and he had to visit George Square. His last text, from one of his buddies from the Big Smoke, read ‘Give my regards to George’. It was an in-joke as he always went on about his shenanigans in George Square. Back in the day, so many of his drunken nights ended up there, waiting on the last bus to Queen’s Park, his mouth drooling over a fish supper whilst his well-oiled eyes drooled over any bird with a skirt and who was still breathing. If she wasn’t breathing, the kiss of life was always on offer. For many young Glasgow lads, George Square was last chance saloon.

      Central Station hadn’t changed much. The big clock was still there, a landmark for any young couple to start their night. Even if you had a no-show, then you just got on the next train. You didn’t need to wait in a pub nursing a lager, glancing at your fake Gucci, watching other punters watching you watching them. And you didn’t need to get soaked waiting at dizzy corner for your appointment – an appointment that you would barely recognise from the night before, if she turned up. And you would be right to think – What if she is a right minger? You were steamboats after all when you were whispering sweet nothings in her mouth. William took it all in and reluctantly admitted to himself that he sort of missed it.

      The exit to Gordon Street was the quickest route to George Square but he wanted to smell Glasgow. His visit would not be complete if he didn’t take the route which would take him under the Heileman’s Umbrella. For William, it was the aroma of home. It was a smell that gestured his homecoming. He took a deep sniff and exhaled an aah! as if it was the Bisto scent from a Sunday dinner. The ingredients had never changed in all the years. The fat from the chippy, the urine from the down ‘n’ outs, the engine from the train and fumes from the bus. A poor man’s Bisto. He whispered Let it flourish under his breath.

      William snapped out of his nostalgic journey when the heavens opened halfway up Union Street. He really was home. Bloody weather, he muttered. The decision to abandon George had been made by the dark clouds which told him that his city centre tour was to be terminated prematurely and a journey to the taxi rank was inevitable. On the other hand, the dark clouds reminded him that this was no holiday. He was here for the reading of a will – his father’s will. He had been summoned by his father’s solicitor.

      There had been no offer of a couple of nights’ bed and breakfast from his family. His sister had just said to him that they would see him when they saw him. It made his check-in status uncertain. William had arrived first class but was brought back down to economy with a bang. No red carpet treatment from the family, that was for sure.

      He approached the taxi at the front and opened the door. The driver started his ignition but William couldn’t complete the transaction. He needed a drink first. The driver just shouted at him to make up his fucking mind. His first encounter with a Glasgow fuck and it had only taken about twenty minutes. Nobody could fuck the way Glasgow folk could. When it came to swearing they really did have what you couldn’t put your finger on, William thought.

      Pubs, old and new, were infinite in choice. But, he remembered, close at hand was one of his old haunts called Rusty’s. It wasn’t the type of establishment for a young bloke to pull a cracker but you always got a good blether with the other punters and there was always Ken Manners, the resident singer, giving it a bit of John Denver on the guitar.

      William entered Rusty’s, judging and reminiscing as he approached the bar. The clientele was as expected for a Thursday afternoon – lacking in numbers and energy. There were seven folk in the entire pub, well nine if he included himself and the barman. They were all on their own night out

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